Since CIA is situated in picturesque central New York, tucked into the Finger Lakes Region, it’s ripe with great expanses of untouched woods, rivers, and lakes and an incredible number of pristine gorges with impressive waterfalls that carve into mountains. I love fresh mountain air—the distinct sharpness of the pine, the way it feels so much lighter and crisper than it does where I grew up, in a small town outside New York City. It does something to my lungs.

It doesn’t take us too long to find the trail and stumble upon a group of CIA students hanging at the edge of a cliff, sprawled among boulders and in patches of dried pine needles. One in particular stands and pulls Benny into the broiest bro-hug I’ve ever seen, and my entire body shudders with secondhand embarrassment as Benny tenses.

Benny yanks on my arm. “Chase, this is my friend from back home, Rhett. Rhett, Chase is like, my new best friend. And also my very cute roommate.”

Rhett is all tight mousy curls and brown puppy-dog eyes and a serious stank face that I hope is not for me.

“Nice,” Rhett says in a vaguely Southern accent that’s not at all Massachusetts like I expected. I can tell by the way he sizes me up and then avoids looking at Benny that he’s still struggling. With what exactly, I don’t know. But it wasn’t long ago that I was Rhett, trying to figure myself out, crushing on boys, and not quite fitting into the role everybody shoved me into. He’ll get there, too. Or he won’t. But it’s impossible not to notice how Benny stares at him like a lost puppy just wanting to be pet by his person. Suddenly, I feel super protective over Benny, and I’m not even sure why because we’ve only known each other for a few hours.

“Not sure where my roommate Jack, is, but uh …” Rhett scratches his head. He looks like one of the nondescript boys in those Instagram ads for basic polo shirts. Very much the boy next door who doesn’t care about his appearance. And Benny eats. It. Up.

Rhett, who I quickly find out was born and raised in Alabama and then moved to Massachusetts in middle school, motions toward the others and introduces us to his dorm mates, and my heart literally stops beating when I see her.

Leila Casablanca.

My former best friend.

She lies lazily atop a rock, cooling herself with an ornate paper fan with gold detailing. She pulls a cigarette out of her bag and lights it. One of her new “friends” lectures her about how bad cigarettes are for the environment, and for a second, she listens. But, in true Leila fashion, she bursts out into an “I’m officially quitting smoking … eventually” soliloquy, one I’ve heard a million times before.

“This is my last puff. I need to make it count,” Leila declares, rising to her feet. “For the planet.” She steadies herself on the dirt, holding the cigarette as a beacon of power, the source of her strength. “Never again shall I suckle at your delicious, delectable teat.”